


"It was about this pirate who was a famous detective"

by Kizzia



Series: All the little things [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Gen, I blame Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, Kid Fic, Kid Sherlock, Mummy Holmes is lovely, Omega Verse, back story for the Little Things 'verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 21:12:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/715154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kizzia/pseuds/Kizzia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are some days which stick in your memory no matter how long ago they happened. Violet has cause to remember one such day, when her darling one was just six years old.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"It was about this pirate who was a famous detective"

**Author's Note:**

> This little ficlet was inspired by Sherlocksdressinggown(Bradspyjamas)’s wonderful back story for Sherlock’s childhood in Little things and the following quote from Good Omens by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman:
> 
> “ ‘It was about this pirate who was a famous detective. And I drew the pictures.’ And then, in a flash of largess, he added, ‘If you like I’ll let you read it. I bet it was a lot more excitin’ than any book you’ve lost. ‘Specially the bit in the spaceship where the dinosaur comes out and fights with the cowboys.’ ”
> 
> It fits into Little Things right after Chapter 37 – Bassinet.

Violet stood on the steps of Gatton, waving until their car was no longer visible on the winding drive and then, chiding herself slightly for turning into such an emotional old lady, she pulled her handkerchief out of her pocket, dabbing at her eyes as she returned to the cool of the house. She’d have passed straight into the family room if the breeze from the door closing hadn’t disturbed a piece of paper, sending it soaring from the hall table to scoot along the floor. Picking it up she recognised the writing at once: 

_Mummy,  
_

_I regret to say that my memories of this were something else I’d hidden away in a dusty corner of my mind until I found it in a dusty corner of the attic._

_I suspect Ford would say there that there is a pleasing symmetry in that but I find nothing to be pleased about in any of my attempts to obliterate my past._

_I hope you remember that day as fondly as I now do._

_Your_

_Sherlock_

Immediately she stepped over to the table, reaching for the yellowing bundle and unknotting the string it was bound with, as her memories swept her back nearly thirty years….

 

She watched the small figure flit between the shadows of the pines that swept down the side of the lawn and wondered how long it would be before the latest tutor found the courage to inform anyone that Sherlock had disappeared. Placing the cut-glass vase that was almost overflowing with tulips on the sideboard she slipped over to the door and opened it, listening hard. She could hear nothing untoward at all; in fact, she realised after moving silently down the corridor and pressing her ear to the school room door, the tutor was still talking – clearly Siger had made something of an impression the man that he would continue with such a farce rather than admit the loss of his charge. Probably hoping he’d turn up at lunchtime and no-one would be any the wiser. Ah well, he’d soon learn. As she continued to listen she found herself surprised Sherlock had only just made his escape; she could find nothing to pique her interest in the monotonous monologue oozing through the wood. The man was obviously an imbecile if he could make the solar system sound no more exciting than times tables.

Her mind made up she quickly retrieved her jacket from her room and then made her way out of the house without even the dogs noticing she had gone. She should have put her foot down with Siger about the tuition from the beginning and she certainly wasn’t going to let Sherlock get into trouble for refusing to remain in a room and be bored to tears. It was ridiculous, really, that she’d let her husband cow her into keeping Sherlock here rather than sending him to the local Primary, as she had Sherrinford and Mycroft before they left for Prep school but … well, there’s never any use crying over split milk, she’d just have to be firm from now on. Her Sherlock may have an unfortunate habit of seeing more than most and speaking his mind at all times but that was no reason to keep him locked away from other children; especially when it was more to protect the reputations of the children’s parents and Siger than it was anything to do with protecting Sherlock. This lonely, cut off from the world, existence was no kind of life for a six year old who seemed to be more intelligent the rest of the family put together. Well, maybe not Mycroft, she corrected herself, but certainly everyone else. 

Once she’d reached the end of the pines she moved into the shadow behind the last trunk so as to be unobservable from the house, stuck her fingers in her mouth and gave a piercing whistle, smiling softly when the girls exploded round the side of the house and pelted towards her, ears flapping and tails rotating nineteen to the dozen.

‘Hello my lovelies,’ she crooned, bending down to greet them and ruffling their ears whilst avoiding their tongues – not an easy feat with these two but definitely necessary if she wanted her make up to remain in tact, ‘what good girls you are … yes you are … oh yes! Now ... can you find Sherlock for me?’

Two heads were cocked to one side and two sets of meltingly brown eyes snapped to attention.

‘Seek Sherlock, Merry,’ she instructed, gesturing to the maze, paddocks and orchard beyond the lawns, ‘Seek Sherlock, Pippin. _Seek_!’

After a team snuffle in the roots of the pine and the grass behind the pair of them zoomed off toward the orchard and Violet followed at a more sedate pace, lifting her face to the sun and, for once, not doing anything about the knots being wrought in her curls by the spring breeze. The excited barking she could hear at the far end of the orchard, where the tallest of the cherry trees grew, told her Sherlock had been found and she quickened her step, getting within sight of the tree in time to see Sherlock, graceful as a gazelle, spring out of the lower branches and catch Merry in an enthusiastic hug.

In an instant, not quite sure why, she’d stepped behind a gnarled old bramley apple tree and then, cautiously - expecting Sherlock to see her immediately - peered round the trunk.

‘You,’ Sherlock was saying to Merry in his high, piping voice that never failed to make her think of a blackbird or a particularly querulous robin, ‘can be Dread Pirate Roberts and you,’ he ran his other hand over Pippin’s pointed nose, earning himself a slobbery kiss for his troubles, ‘can be Black Jack Ketchum, who has made it look like Dread Pirate Roberts stole Silver from the Lone Ranger.’

‘And who are you going to be,’ she asked as she stepped out from behind the tree, unable to contain herself any longer.

‘Mummy!’ he cried, eyes lighting up for a second before they widened and then his face shut down completely. He didn’t quite shuffle himself behind the dogs, who were looking between the two of them with interest, but it was a close run thing. Then he seemed to master himself and lifted his chin with a jerk, in an unmistakable gesture of defiance.

It took nearly all of her self control not to laugh aloud at the picture he made – dark ringlets tangled and mussed with twigs and leaves, white shirt smeared with moss and bark and his shorts ripped at the hem; a stark contrast to his imperious expression any general would have been proud of, but she did not so much as snigger. She knew that would be the death knell for any hopes she had of joining in with his game; being laughed at was something he’d never been able to tolerate from anyone but Sherrinford and not even he could get away with it every time. Instead she favoured him with a stern look for a few seconds before breaking into a conspiratorial smile, ‘I was just thinking it was too nice a day to be indoors, darling one, and then I saw you come down here. So I followed, in the hope you might be playing something exciting and you would let me join in.’

‘We’re not _playing_ ,’ Sherlock said, practically vibrating with indignation even as he reached out to take her hand and pull her down onto the grass with him, ‘I’m _practicing_ and Merry and Pip are helping.’

‘Practicing for what, exactly?’

‘For when I grow up,’ he pulled a sheath of paper from out of his waist band and presented it to her with a flourish, ‘I wrote it all down as a book, you know, just like Mycroft does. I did it all myself…’ he paused, clearly fighting some internal battle before adding, with a half smile that pulled shadows out of the bright sunlight on his pale little face and made him look almost elven, ‘well, Ford helped me a bit. Just with the _really_ long words and some of the pictures.’

Unrolling the dog-eared pages as reverently as if they were some ancient scroll she stared down at the first page, on which, in Sherlock’s best handwriting, was the title:

“An Account of the life of Captain Sherlock Holmes; Famous Pirate and Detective of the First Order.”

Underneath was a sketch of Sherlock – unmistakably Sherrinford’s work - complete with pirate hat, coat and breeches, carrying a magnifying glass in one hand and a sword in the other.

In the pages that followed, Captain Sherlock’s ship, crew and skills were described in the way only a six year old with a penchant for books well beyond his years and an eighteen year old helpmeet can; with such grand claims as, “Captain Sherlock was heralded, throughout the known world, as the cleverest pirate ever to have lived” and “there was no mystery Captain Sherlock could not solve” alongside details such as “the ship was kept in order by a devoted deck hand, who knew how Captain Sherlock wanted things done and was no bother to anyone” and “Captain Sherlock did not have a parrot for he needed no companions in life other than his trusty first mate and his violin”.

The last eight pages contained a story labelled “Captain Sherlock and the Mystery of Silver – His Greatest Adventure”.

‘It’s not finished,’ Sherlock piped, when she reached the last page to find a picture - one of Sherlock’s this time – of what she thought was supposed to be a Velociraptor standing in front of an overflowing treasure chest with a disc-like space ship hovering above it, ‘I want to ask Mycroft some more questions about how exactly he knows that the Scientists will have managed to recreate the dinosaurs by the time I’m really a pirate and I need Ford to explain about the aliens again as I’m not sure I understand space travel properly.’

Violet wrapped her free arm round Sherlock and kissed the top of his head while she once again quashed the urge to laugh. Honestly, her boys really were the giddy limit; where they came up with such things she had no idea. Although there had been something in Mycroft’s Christmas term report about an interest in DNA and genetic engineering so she supposed resurrecting the dinosaurs wasn’t so surprising but _aliens_? She would definitely be having a word with Ford when he came home at Easter.

‘It’s very good darling, and I’m sure Ford and Mycroft will be honoured to help you finish it,’ she said when Sherlock wriggled out of her hold and sprung to his feet, looking expectant, ‘but how about, for now, I take the role of first mate and you explain to me exactly how you worked out Ketchum’s dastardly scheme.’

‘Then you must address me as Captain Sherlock, First Mate Holmes,’ he replied haughtily, hand going to his hip as if he were resting it on the hilt of a sword. But then he grinned, face shining brighter than the March sunshine, and held out his hand, ‘we’ll just do the bit on land then, because I don’t think you’ll be able to climb up the ship.’

Brushing her hands on her slacks before letting Sherlock help her up she eyed the apple tree speculatively. ‘Oh I dunno know, Cap’n Sherlock,’ she said, adopting a gruff accent that made Sherlock’s eyes widen with surprise, ‘I think I’ll ’ave a go.’

'Come on then,' Sherlock was already in the lower branches, looking expectantly down at her, 'start on ....'

 

‘Lady Holmes! Are you quite well?’ Reginald’s voice shattered her reminisces and she looked up to find him right in front of her, face the picture of concern.

‘I’m perfectly fine, thank you,’ she said, realising, as she gave him a reassuring smile, that it was absolutely true, ‘in fact I feel better than I have in years.’

**Author's Note:**

>  **Note the first:** I am aware that “The Princess Bride” wasn’t filmed until 1987 but the book was first published in 1973. In my head it was one that Ford had in his collection that he and Mycroft took it in turns to read to Sherlock. I’m also thinking that the Lone Ranger is known to Sherlock through Ford’s love of old comic books (rather than the television) and that Mycroft taught him about the “Outlaw” cowboys like Black Jack Ketchum in an attempt to inject some realism into things. I also imagine Mycroft’s book that contains his plans for world domination is a black leather bound journal with a lock; a lock that just might have been Sherlock’s first foray in lock-picking.
> 
>  **Note the second:** If you want an idea of the dates and ages that the Little things universe works to, the following should be noted:  
>  \- Sherlock was born on 6 January 1980, this is set in March 1986.  
> \- Mycroft is seven years older than Sherlock, so is thirteen and thus is in his first year at Eton.  
> \- Ford is six years older than Mycroft and so is nineteen and currently in his first year at Cambridge. His death, the summer before Sherlock turned seven, is only a few months away.  
> \- Violet was married off by her family to Siger at the age of 16 and had Ford nine months later. She is an omega and Siger was an Alpha but they never completed their bond (female omegas are impregnatable outside of their heats). Thus she is thirty five in this story and still more than capable of climbing apple trees.  
> \- Oh and in case you are wondering, it was the norm at that time for prep schools in the UK (which are the private form of primary schools – prep being short for preparatory and intended to prepare them for public schools like Eton and Harrow, which they start at the age of thirteen) to take pupils from the age of seven, so both Mycroft and Sherrinford were sent to the local primary school at five (because all children had to start school at five) and then were moved to their prep school once they were old enough. Siger deemed Sherlock’s mouth too dangerous to be unleashed on the local populous and thus arranged for home tutoring until he could be shipped off at seven; in the hopes he could be tamed in the intervening two years. Like that was going to work!
> 
>  **Note the third:** The dogs have been given their names because a) I adore all things Tolkien and b) my OH’s mother has two black Labradors called Merry and Pippin and I just had to find them space in a fic somewhere (they stole part of the Christmas present I gave my OH so they were clearly very aptly named, even if they are trained to the gun and behave perfectly on shoots).


End file.
